


When you kiss me, Heaven sighs

by zaboraviti



Series: Dancing on the Edge [3]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angels and Demons, F/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Out of Character, Romance, kinda soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaboraviti/pseuds/zaboraviti
Summary: Bits of Good Omens, bits of Sin noticias de Dios.Some vague philosophy, dark humor, some soulmates stuff, possible OOC, plus cute puppy Albert.Some Melbourne/Tucker bromance-induced obscenities, which I should really be done with – I’m not Malcolm, my obscene vocabulary would only make a thin booklet at best.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [When you kiss me, Heaven sighs](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/283773) by Lady-in-waiting-ss. 



_collage by[Lady-in-Waiting](https://vk.com/lady__disdain)_

 

“She’s going to break off that cup's handle.”

“Unlikely, given her constitution. Inadequate resource of physical strength.”

Melbourne sighs and pointedly rolls his eyes. Rookies. No imagination, no laid-back tranquillity whatsoever. They have yet to realize that time is infinite and life is vanity of vanities. This Albert is a bore, although, admittedly, this one at least is not prone to hysterical fits, unlike the two interns before him. In fact, he is far too resilient. William hasn’t met anyone so unemotional in a hundred plus years. The lad’s family probably don’t feel much difference between him being alive or dead.

“Remind me, why did they give you community service? An overdue library book? Nah, your heavenly gatekeepers would simply strip you of your evening dessert rights for that. Must be something more serious… Probably not just any book, probably the Kamasutra…” muses William, watching a tiny brunette in the coffee shop across the road fold a paper napkin into her fourth crane.

“By Satan, she’s such a child,” Melbourne suddenly stops hassling his partner.

Albert peeks into a small black notebook whose pages are covered in small, neat, even handwriting.

“She has only just turned eighteen”, the angel says, checking with his notes. “Legally, she is not a child anymore. Physically, however…”

Albert falters, pinned down by Melbourne’s stare. He knew perfectly well that this man had been serving Hell for the past two hundred years or so. Women, booze, passion and idleness. And the bright mind of a diplomat and politician capable of resolving any predicament. Slaving in this field after death is his curse. Embarrassing humans and angels with his outrageously ribald jokes is his hobby. But you, Albert, you got into Heaven, didn’t you? Your soul is pure, you are immune to these tricks! The key is not to lose your tongue under the shrewd snake tail green stare.

“However, based on the physical criteria, she is not in the Adultery Department database,” Albert finishes the sentence with as much dignity as he can muster.

William smirks again. Field angels, senior ones, have a formidable ability to swear without breaking any of their oaths. Surprisingly slippery bastards. He would bet another hundred years of service that they do it without a single feather in their wings blushing. This sanctimonious brat is still green, yet there it is, the trademark breathtaking hypocrisy rearing its fluffy heavenly head.

A taxi rolls by, pulling up slowly. The girl who has unknowingly become an object of such intent attention of higher powers comes to life with a jerk, hastily throws five paper cranes on the empty table next to her and sits with the look of utmost concentration. Her tiny hands slide down, pulling the hem of a formal black dress to her knees, then flutter back to the tabletop, returning to the cup of untouched lukewarm coffee.

“What do you need her for?” Albert’s voice breaks the tense silence. “Do you want to start a war?”

Melbourne’s gaze travels from the two men that got out of the taxi to Albert’s pale face adorned with an old-fashioned lush moustache. Hell’s messenger looks grave for the first time today.

“No, we don’t want a war. It only sounds like fun, while all you actually get is a shitload of paperwork. Red tape is worse than all circles of Hell combined.”

“Why are you here then?” the newbie persists.

“To stop the war from happening. To stop you from screwing up and also from allowing this girl to demolish the gigantic corporation her ancestors worked so hard to create.”

“And what would be so wrong about it if she did? They were arms dealers. She might chose a different path. Fewer weapons in the world means less work both for you and for us.”

Melbourne half feels like laughing.

“Do you know, o innocent lamb, what a system of checks and balances is?”

“I do, it’s a term from political science, it means--”

“Well, the world works in the same way,” William cuts him off, wincing as if from a toothache. “It’s not really demons that put crap like greed or hatred into humans’ heads. Humankind generally needs no assistance in self-destruction. People manage quite well on their own. And that’s why your potential cloudmates should have means to be able to stop the planet Earth from being split like a nut.”

Albert is silent, he is thinking it all over, while Melbourne watches through narrowed eyes two clerks wearing suits that cost Bangladesh’s annual budget shake the girl’s hand across the road. She nods and says something to them and William can smell the sweet stench of lies even from where he sits. She says she’s sorry about her uncle’s death. Sorry her arse. No one is sorry about that boring son of a bitch. And the Lolita there will hardly shed a tear over the old man, what with all her new money and power.

He hears paper rustling. They are signing transfer of rights agreements and thank fucking god she at least reads the pages before putting her sprawling signature at the bottom. Of course, she understands bugger all; Satan himself would bang his head against the wall if he had to read those scribbles.

“What is the point of you then? If you don’t wreak havoc on the planet?” Albert’s annoying voice cuts through his thoughts again.

“The point of us is… your bosses would get swelled heads otherwise. Power always needs opposition, so that dominant ideals don’t lose their value in public’s eyes. Bottom line, a system of checks and balances. Now shut your pie hole and watch,” Melbourne grunts, wondering how many times he has broadcasted his rookie special.

The celestial chancellery is quick to forgive. So his partners replace one another faster than Kate Middleton gave birth.

Meanwhile, the girl dismisses the clerks and they shake her tiny hand once again.

So fragile, so innocent and pure she is that Melbourne feels somewhat uncomfortable. Being on the same street with her is like being an old shoe lying about on a blooming flowerbed. How in the name of hell did he end up babysitting this… princess. Ah, the damn breeding breaks through again. Not the time or the place…

Melbourne scratches his coarse stubbled cheek and wraps the useless coat tight around his frame. The only temperature he can ever feel is the sepulchral cold…

“Now this is interesting…”

As soon as the taxi takes off, moving away from the coffee shop terrace, a tall figure emerges from out of the depth of the bar. A black blazer, so expensive it’s tasteless, especially with this cheap haircut. Show-off.  
  
“Who is the prick?” Albert whispers. William is not even shocked, not with the unmistakable reaction the new character elicits.

The girl scowls at the man who sprawls on the chair next to her like he owns the place. He is telling her something, with a smirk, and she snaps, losing the impressive composure and dignity, with which she was reading the business papers under the solicitors’ scorching glares mere minutes ago.

“Could we maybe arrange an accident for this one?” Melbourne hisses through gritted teeth.

He is extremely cross for some reason. Funny, considering that the only two states of mind he has been prone to in the last hundred and fifty years are apathy and sarcasm.

“No!” Albert is close to panic, apparently thinking that he is indeed stuck with a psycho rapist murderer who takes candy from babies.

Melbourne takes a slow deep breath. The girl across the road suddenly flings her arm, as if by accident knocking down the full cup of coffee right onto her companion’s suit. The man jumps to his feet, swearing brazenly, cursing the tiny thing who just watches him with a gloating grin.  
  
“This is not a game, Victoria!” yells the man who in Melbourne’s head will henceforth be referred to as _the_ _prick_.

A long arm flies up in the air, a wide palm about to leave a mark on the delicate rosy cheek. A second before William conjures up a cerebral haemorrhage for _the prick_ , slender but tenacious fingers intercept the hefty wrist.

Her voice is very low. Even lower than when she was having a regular conversation. Melbourne however hears every word.

“You lay one finger on me, John, and I’ll throw you out on the street. You know I can, now. And don’t bother sucking up, because, well, you suck at it, and it's no use anyway.”

Victoria relaxes her fingers, releasing _the prick John_ ’s wrist with disgust, as if she has been holding a rat.

_“I will be making my own decisions. When I require assistance, I will ask for it.”_

_The prick_ leaves the coffee shop, seething with rage. Albert hears him mutter something about the “little bitch” but he is not completely sure what exactly and he doesn’t dare ask Melbourne. He turns to face his partner and finds him sneering.

“Right, off we go. There’s more to this girl than meets the eye, so it might be even more fun than our bosses expected.”

Melbourne drains his cup in one gulp and stands up. Albert has nothing else to do but follow him to the nearest corner, where a glossy sidecar motorcycle is parked under the no parking sign.

  
***

The thump-thump-thumping music is so loud that they can probably hear it in Hell.

She is dancing, cheery and carefree. So different from the tense girl he saw in the morning. She and her girlfriends are just a few splashes of colour in the whirlpool of the turbulent crowd.

“We’ve got to make her leave this place,” Albert keeps nagging; he is on his third glass of water.

“Why? What’s wrong with this place?” Melbourne responds indifferently. “Much fewer people die from dancing than from boredom, trust my experience.”

Albert purses his lips but doesn’t argue, only swallows the rest of his mineral water in one go.

“Another round?” Emma smirks behind the bar. “Or something stronger?”

Out of the corner of his eye, William sees the messenger of Heaven shudder.

“No, thanks. Just water,” Albert babbles, looking away from long rows of shelves with alcoholic, non-alcoholic and some very peculiar products.

Victoria shows up out of nowhere. Comes out of the ground like a jack-in-the-box and, without thinking at all, grabs the black wool of William’s coat lapels, and his body temperature for a moment leaps to the crazy extreme defying every law of the universe.

“I want to dance with you,” she says, very obviously inebriated but still coherent, which makes Melbourne think that he is oh so definitely in trouble.

“Not tonight, ma’am,” he does his best to smile as softly as he can although he’s not sure if he is still capable to do that after so many years of chipped half-smiles and smirks.

His fingers touch her forehead. Her skins feels hot, like she is running a fever. It’s okay, though, it happens to people when they experience stupid useless happiness of here and now. Victoria’s gaze grows slightly more blurred at his touch. A moment later, she blinks and scans William’s face quizzically.

“Um… I’m sorry, have we met?” she wrinkles her forehead deliciously and of course she doesn’t remember the last five minutes, which means that she fortunately doesn’t remember her attempts at flirting with him either.

“No. Never had the honour,” he smiles softly again, this time confident that he almost manages to get the smile right.

She is funny. Resolute. His “clients” are usually much more predictable and he is so sick of it. Victoria is something new. A gulp of fresh air and he, all his cursed rotten soul notwithstanding, sincerely wishes her to never change.

“I-- Victoria,” she says all of a sudden, just like this, holding out a delicate hand.

“William,” he answers automatically and feels a tingling in his nape under Albert and Emma’s perfectly synchronized stares. “I believe you are a little tired, please allow my nephew to walk you home.”

He finishes his speech, absolutely sure that everything is fine. His lie is infernally convincing, her disoriented memory plays into their hand, and Albert is not being slow for the first time today, smiling his perfect angelic smile.

William would very much like to punch it.

Victoria leaves on the angel on her arm, which means she is safe. She looks back at Melbourne a couple of times, while he convinces himself he is just fine. The benefit of working for the good of the Underworld is that he doesn’t have to deny himself anything. What’s one more sin? Except that he was bored of it all even before he was dead. Passion begets suffering, and the payback is immediate. He has learned that lesson a long time ago. He never wants anything these days. Or he hasn’t. Until this darned day.

“Since when do you look after damsels in distress? Thinking of changing sides?” Emma chuckles behind his back, slowly polishing a tall glass.

“We need her safe and sound,” Melbourne says with a habitual indifference.

“I have heard that the Council discussed using her uncle. The one who’s our client. Perhaps the girl is not that necessary after all. But she is of course lovely…”

“Don’t be a fool. Cumberland is bound to unleash World War 3. You would have to board up this place and get back to your full-time position. And this is the best case scenario…”

Emma presses her thin lips together but the anxiety in her eyes is genuine.

“Just don’t rush into the fire.”

“Quelle ironie!”

Another glance in the direction where Victoria with his sourpuss of a partner have just disappeared. What if the kid messes up? It’s William’s neck on the line, while the “good guys” are always “good”.

“I’ll have a Brocket Hall,” he slides his empty glass across the counter to Emma.

She tenses up even more, her crimson lips now a thin line, a small crease between the sharp dashes of her eyebrows.

“Are you sure? The forecast for today is thunderstorm with rain. Non-flying weather conditions…”

“Positive. It’s going to look classy as fuck,” Melbourne grumbles. “Fill it up.”

  
***

Victoria comes to the conclusion that tonight is the weirdest night of her life when her tight-lipped escort literally flees as soon as she suggests they exchange phone numbers. However, the weirdness blows throw the roof and becomes inexpressible in words, when a flash of lightning illuminates the tree by the porch and a big ruffled feathered rook that _she can swear_ is staring right at her through the darkness of the stormy night.

Another flash of lightning. Rooks can’t smile, can they?

  
***

Her high heels are infernally slim. The lift doors open, and Victoria strides across the polished marble tiles trying to keep her balance like a ballerina from an old music box.

“Good morning, Miss Kent!” Emma drawls sweetly from her place, holding out Victoria’s mail. “The Board of Directors’ meeting in half an hour…”

“Thanks,” Victoria says vacantly, passing her on the way to her office.

One foot over the doorstep, she stops and turns back into the lobby.

“Thanks… Emma?” something clicks in her mind, and she nods, now collected.

When the door is finally slammed shut, Emma shifts her gaze to the other end of the room, where Melbourne is hiding at the sofa behind the enormous shield of a spread newspaper.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Rummaging in her brain?” Emma asks out of curiosity rather than to preach.

“As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be. I do however have a somewhat disagreeable feeling.” Hell’s messenger lowers the paper and it takes his friend some effort not to comment on his nifty suit and his brand new tie.

“Are you going to brainwash the Board as well?” Emma asks, pulling a metal nail file out of her desk drawer.

“No need. They are all too busy now, concerned with themselves and their plans to sweet-talk the new queen.” William winces, hearing the grating sound of the witch’s nail care routine.

“Won’t she recognize you?” Emma blows off the nail sawdust with a noisy puff.

  
“Well, I can always…” says Melbourne, folding his paper in the noisiest way possible.

“No, you can’t!”

A sudden surge of indignation makes Emma stop filing. He looks up in surprise.

“William, look what’s become of you! Where is your nimble mind, where is your ability to find an individual approach? Since when are corny brain tricks your primary weapon?”

“Why do you even care?” Melbourne says rather defensively, still shocked by this highly irregular onset of concern.

Emma puts the file away, her long sharp nails now drumming on the tabletop, her voice pure incantation.

“When I agreed to help you and the holy mustachio, I thought it’d be fun. I thought I’d see the master in action, the manipulations, the whispered temptations. Whereas you seem to be avoiding the girl! You made me a receptionist! Do you want me to poison her bullies’ drinks? Can’t exterminate everyone. You are supposed to be guiding her, teaching her how to handle all this shit.”

Melbourne’s impassive face doomed to the expression of tired irony twisted for a moment. He hates it when Emma is right. And she is always right.

“I know. I will. Why the fuck do you think I’ve dressed up?”

Emma looks clearly satisfied, if a touch distrustful. She won.

“What have you done to the real PA?” William asks all of a sudden.

“A drop of love potion in her tea. She’s in Brighton right now, enjoying herself with the junior accountant.”

The familiar smile splits his mouth.

“It’s a shame they can’t make you a cherub.”

Emma grins back.

“Go to hell.”

  
***

He settles in the corner, taking the best observation point. All these people around him are incredibly dull and seeing _the prick_ makes him want to heave. A middle-aged blonde is sitting next to John. The expressive line of her upper lip imparts a touch of capriciousness to her face, and perhaps this expression is no more than a result of many facelifts. The woman’s eyes are the same shade of sky-blue as Victoria’s, only long devoid of their vibrant spark.

She and her beautiful eyes enter the room. Mourning wear is strangely flattering on her.

Some clatter outside the window. Melbourne casts a furtive glance and has to fight back laughter.

Albert, disguised as a window cleaner, is dangling on a long cable, his nose pressed against the glass. A baseball cap hides his eyes, but his moustache sticks out proudly, ruining the elaborate camouflage. Then again, nobody here really cares about some window cleaner. This room smells of money. This room smells of opportunities.

Victoria starts talking. Her speech is meticulously rehearsed, her enunciation naturally clear.

If only these ancient misers were actually listening. They show no hint of interest no matter how hard she is trying to be interesting. And the things she’s saying are quite sensible, he can’t deny that. But these people are too fond of the way they live. Changes are nonsense and unnecessary hassle. What old dog would want to lift his comfortable arse off a warm snug seat and learn new tricks when the girl who suggests it is no older than his new bitch?

Melbourne watches her reaction. Victoria keeps talking matter-of-factly. She likes her ideas. She really believes in them, it’s not just a mindless recital of her notes.

“Now about Arms Development and Distribution Departments,” Victoria announces in a ringing voice.

How is this for the dessert? Thick grey eyebrows of the top management creep upwards in utter disbelief that she even dared put her foot in that door. They all belong in a bloody nursing home…

“Excuse me, miss,” _the prick_ begins in a most derisive tone. “We are not altogether sure you are sufficiently competent in this area.” John’s gaze sweeps over the long table. “You probably shouldn’t disturb the established system of our trade relationships, moreover, it’s very unlikely that you, with all your youthful perfectionism, know anything about managing this sort of enterprise—“

Then John's gaze stumbles upon a piercing stare of green eyes and the words stick in his throat and remain unsaid, as do all the others he attempts to get out. Now he can only open and close his mouth without making a sound, like a big angry fish.

“I am a quick learner,” Victoria drops somewhat absent-mindedly, silently grateful for this odd miracle.

She dreamed of shutting John up for half her life.

“Please continue, ma’am,” a coarse voice says softly, and somehow it’s very invigorating.

“So, about the arms…”

  
***

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Albert remarks an hour later, when he meets William on the roof of Albion Business Centre.

“You know what, when you begged for your kook of a brother to get chickenpox instead of syphilis last month, I didn’t say a word. So take it easy. The less this nitwit says, the better for the environment. Let’s go report on the good news. Looks like a victory for Victoria. And all without our help.”

  
***

He has been sitting in this pub for a full hour. So has she.

Her glass contains nothing but mineral water, while Melbourne himself already contains no less than a tankful of brandy.

One paper after another. Victoria frowns, biting the tip of her pencil, draws something in her notebook, then quickly strikes it out. He wonders why she loves working here, in the company of Manchester United fans, a yelling TV broadcasting a match and a melancholic demon who can’t even get drunk properly.

She emerges in front of him as abruptly as the last time. Perfectly sober and so resolute that William is almost panicking, although he has seen much scarier things in both his life and afterlife than a short business lady in stone washed jeans.

“Have we met?” she asks, looking into his face intently.

“I don’t think so,” says Melbourne hoarsely.

He should not have come here. Technically, he didn’t have to. Everything worked out fine, five feet of youthful energy sealed the fate of the world in the wisest manner possible by having given preference to public contracts over some dodgy clients from the continent. Why is he still watching her?

“No”, Victoria repeats stubbornly. “We definitely have met…”

She is not going to remember. You don’t have to shiver like a five-year-old lying to his mother.

“You were in that club a few weeks ago. And then at the shareholders’ meeting. Definitely. You were there,” the girl keeps saying, her incredible bright eyes gliding across William’s ancient face, drawing a mental picture of his profile.

This is impossible. _Impossible_.

She is all so impossible. Impossible girl.

“Do you work for us?” she asks with a small wary smile.

“I-- I’m more like an outsourcer. From the… underground resources department.”

Victoria takes a few seconds to think it over and decides that he can be trusted, holding out her hand once again.

“I’m Victoria. And you said your name was…”

“William,” he can’t bring himself to lie.

“Do you maybe want to have dinner somewhere a little more quiet?”

She is brave, blindly so. Little does she know she’s playing with fire.

For the first time in what feels like forever Melbourne wants to pray. Pray that she run away from him as fast as she can. Because now, now he can’t for the hell of it make her go away.

  
***

Thank God, she mostly talks about herself and doesn’t give him a third degree. She eats a lot and quickly, like a hungry anaconda.

“It’s been a while since I last saw a woman with such a good appetite,” he laughs and she smiles in embarrassment.

Those dimples in her cheeks are Heaven and Hell rolled in one.

“Where did you go to school?” she asks, tasting her blood-red wine.

“Um… Eton, Trinity College… I read a lot.”

“Lucky you. I’m home-schooled. Private tutors and everything. To this day, I can’t imagine where my mother and stepfather used to find those pedantic dickheads… Oh, I’m sorry, you must be unaccustomed to this sort of language.”

Oh, how he loves laughing with her. Such a light, sincere… lively feeling. He feels alive when he is with her.

But nothing lasts forever.

His hoarse laughter interlaced with the silver bells of her voice is broken off by the dull vibration of a mobile phone.

The old scratched screen flashes with a text message from phone number _666_.

The Devil’s got a style.

_Meeting. Now. Failure to attend will get you a shift on the sixth circle._

“I have to go,” sighs William.

“Can I see you again?” Victoria looks up hesitantly.

  
***

They see each other for a month after that. He takes her to restaurants, museums and parks, wondering why this weird thing between them is even a thing. What does she need him for? How dares he need her?

Albert intercepts him after a date one night, as soon as Victoria disappears behind the door to her flat.

“I don’t know what your plan is, but you should leave her alone!”

Inexplicable, unrestrained rage washes over Melbourne.

“What’s it to you? Jealous?” he snarls, watching the angel's face blotch red.

“Of course I’m not,” Albert looks away. “I thought however that you quite liked her and didn’t want her to come to any harm.”

“I didn’t want her inheritance to come to any harm,” William smiled a forced predatory smile. “You are right, though. She is quite… likeable.”

Here we are. Puppy dog eyes. Tips of the moustache twitching indignantly. Oh, but wrath is a deadly sin.

“Don’t be a scumbag to her,” the young man says softly.

“You seem to be forgetting that I am by definition a scumbag.”

Albert lets out a heavy sigh and fades into the air within mere seconds.

No one hates Melbourne more than he hates himself at the moment.

  
***

Three days later, she kisses him. After he has been single-mindedly avoiding her for three days. The Devil alone knows how she manages to find him at the dusty auto repair shop, where he is having his motorcycle fixed.

She doesn’t make a sound. There is not a single reproach, no yelling or crying. She burns a hole in him with her aching gaze and then pulls him down. To her.

And it’s like being born again. The first contact of their lips is like an intake of oxygen after asphyxiation. An eternity-long asphyxiation. For a moment, he is lost, his arms flailing awkwardly. And then he finds her shoulders. Her waist, so narrow that he is afraid to grasp it for fear of snapping her body in two. The soft skin of her cheek. The scent of roses in her hair.

She kisses him fiercely at first. Then calmer, slower. And he can’t help it. _Loving her_ is so right, so natural. Larger than Hell or Heaven. More important than Satan or God.

Some down to earth people call it body mechanics, as if discussing the motion of planets and stars. And there is something to it. If one should attempt to describe this life-giving feeling, no scale smaller than universal would do.

She still needs to breathe, unlike him.

“I--” Victoria murmurs, unable to take away her hands resting on his stubbly cheeks. “I have missed you so much. You shouldn’t leave me again.”

Unfortunately, the only thing he should do _is_ leave her.

“No,” Melbourne’s voice is firm and quiet. “I can’t promise you that. You have no idea… You really have no idea.”

“Shut up,” she shakes her head, pressing her forehead into his chest. “I can guess anything you can say before you say it. And I only have only one answer. I don’t care. Anyway. Whatever it is.”

“No, Victoria. I’ve been through this. My wife went insane, my son died before his eighteenth birthday. Hundreds of people suffered because of me. I am not exaggerating. I am cursed. And I curse everything I ever touch. You don’t deserve this.”

She is so wonderful that his long dead heart feels tight in his chest. It sinks, it aches, it screams. She is so wonderful, so perfect for him. So clever and so understanding. Which is why she leaves, reading it in his eyes that she must leave.

Oh, he has so many questions to the merciless powers up there at this moment.

  
***

His torment now is greater than ever. Apart from the position of an errand boy, his punishment includes remembering every single moment of pain he has ever inflicted on his fellow human beings.

Carol’s mad eyes haunt him, and his boy’s sobs never stop tearing his heart. But it’s even more complicated with Victoria, because they share their grief, and as much as he wants to save her from it, he can’t just take her pain away.

He knows now when she has it the roughest. It’s usually at night, not unnatural for busy people who tend to forget themselves drowning in the worries of day. The infinite heart-wrenching anguish hits him harder and harder every night. Melbourne is terrified to think how she lives with it. He never sleeps but she is still living, she needs to…

He detects something new one day. A pure animal fear unknown to the immortal servant of Hell sweeps over William, as he watches his new client, calculating whether he should play on his greed or on his laziness.

Everything swims before his eyes. The world around him simply disappears, loses all meaning and importance, as Melbourne rushes to her side, guided by the only urge that matters.

As if in a frozen time frame, he sees her frightened face, slender hands on the shoulders of the old governess trying to cover Victoria with her body. But she, Victoria, is more strong-willed. She is more courageous. His little queen. His personal angel.

A bullet, burning and relentless, is already a couple feet from them.

William can’t stop time. But he can think on his feet.

The bullet hits him in the chest. His ears are ringing with the assault of sounds: gun popping, people screaming, a distant wailing of sirens, the murderer’s thumping feet, and a single thin sob. Victoria.

She catches his fallen body, which is of course nothing but an illusion craftily woven for a suddenly tired bundle of energy called soul. He hasn’t been alive for a long time and he can’t die. But when Victoria’s caring hands gently lower his head on her lap, he is willing to disappear completely and forever.

He can’t die. He can’t even be wounded in any physically perceptible way. So before he drifts out of consciousness, he lets out a stunned “What in the six wings of seraph…”

  
***

Blinded by light, Melbourne thinks for a second that somebody in HR ballsed up and he was sent to Heaven.

But it’s only a fluorescent lamp on the grey ceiling covered in a scattering of cracks. It’s only a hospital, Wellington, he thinks.

“You look like shit.”

Well, if it isn’t the tearful friends and family bearing flowers and oranges. Emma gets up and approaches Melbourne’s bed. He shifts his hand.

“Why the hell are there bloody tubes sticking out of me like I’m a bloody overdosed junkie?”

“Stop spinning, you Don Quixote. You’ve been shot in the stomach. You’re lucky to be alive.” Emma’s eyes are both worried and sly.

“This is mental,” groans Melbourne, wincing from pain. “I can’t be wounded. I’m just a fake, an imprint of a living human being at best…”

“Easy, easy,” the witch chuckles, when he makes an attempt to sit up and grimaces. “You’re going to pull a stich.”

Her long nail gently pokes the bandage wrapped around his chest, a bloodstained patch looking through the gauze.

“I’m bleeding. Bloody hell.” William blinks, his eyes blank, and stops trying to move.

“Yes, you are bleeding,” Emma smirks even more slyly. “And, anticipating stupid questions — you are human now. It was decided up there, for some reason, that you deserved a second chance. Methinks that lad with a moustache had something to do with it… In any case, here’s my advice, take good care of this body, drenched in alcohol, bullet-ridden as it is, for second chances don’t grow on trees, my friend.”

His expression is priceless, but Emma hastily retreats to the door before anyone even thinks to suspect her of compassion and affection.

Melbourne follows her with a lingering look and then he remembers.

She appears out of nowhere, as she always does. He barely has to think about it. His jack-in-the-box, his angel.

“I don’t know how you managed to shield me with your body so quickly, but-- thank you.”

Victoria is standing still at the doorstep, like a miniature rock. Iron will and boundless tenderness. And all this power of light is here with him now, clearly intent on taking his unusually warm hand and never letting it go.

“The police believe the attempt to be the work of one of Albion’s shareholders, disgruntled competition and all that jazz…”

Listening to her carefree chirping, squeezing her hot fingers, partially bleeding, William feels strangely weak and vulnerable, and free. And happy. They took his eternal life away but gave him something sweeter than all pastures of Heaven.


End file.
